stupid equity assignment, take two.

Oh my god. I haven't even touched on one bloody major point and I'm at 1,925 words. I just knew I bloody got carried away talking about the enforcer thing. Bleah. I'm considering using contractions again to reduce the word count. I hate word limits.

Chloe is sweet and so are her chocolate cookies. The girl can bake and for that I am envious. Mag and I concurred that the ability to bake is a very useful skill, especially when you are trying to get the attention of some guy you like. The scariest part about all of this? That thought sprang into my head out of nowhere when I was eating Chloe's cookie. It did not need any prompting from Mag; it just appeared, crashed into my consciousness, fundamentally undermined my neo-feminist stand against stereotypically-female domestic activities.

Seriously, I've never seen myself as that kind of girl. I've never thought of myself as sweet (looks can be very deceiving) and "demure" is probably the last word I'd use to describe myself. The most romantic thing I'd do for a guy is probably write him rubbish freeverse poetry that even I don't understand sometimes, because the stuff I write is unholistic and patchy. Objectively, that's getting the shortest end of the stick to ever be conceived in the collective consciousness of humanity; unlike food which is universally-appreciated, super high-brow things like poetry and art, even pale imitations at best, take a specialised mind to "get". And so if you're some Science stream guy who has no inclination whatsoever towards poetry and Literature, getting some weird-ass poem from a girl is definitely not as major as getting cookies from her.

But if I started baking I would lose all sense and notion of who I am. I don't know, you know? I don't like romantic gestures like that and if I did them I'd feel weird doing them. Maybe that's why I've been so damn unlucky when it comes to love.

Along a similar vein, my mom was telling me that I should get a guy who would bend to my every wish and desire, do whatever I want to do, almost like he has no mind of his own. To that I said, "That's like, totally gross." Because it is. When all's said and done, I still want a guy who can assert himself, who isn't afraid of me, who can take control. He has to have a backbone; otherwise, I won't have an ounce of respect for him and I can't be with someone for whom I have no respect.

I think it's kinda weird with me - much as I reject the idea that the female is the submissive one, not just in a relationship but in society generally, I still want a guy who can control without being domineering. Then again, maybe it's not so much a matter of control as it is his ability to protect me, or make me feel protected. That highly important thing called a Sense of Security. Or whatever.

Eh, then AGAIN, as much as I want to feel protected, I also find it insulting when a guy thinks I need to be protected. Like, when he starts questioning my decisions and judgements on the basis of, "Do you even know what you're doing? What if you get hurt?" Whatever and so on and so forth. Because that's like, a direct attack on my intelligence, intellectual capacity, ability to decide what's best for myself, what I want, etc, like I'm not capable of doing something that's objectively completely stupid without being sure that I want to do it. I can't give any solid examples at the moment but that's, I don't know, the gist of it, I guess.

Okay, I have no freaking idea what I'm talking about. I'm a bloody mass and mess of contradictions and yes, I don't know what I want at all.

Too complicated, don't care, Equity more important lah.

**

Edited to add at 2.35 a.m.:

I'm tired of editing my essay. The original word count was 2361. It's gone through two edits and it's now 2256.

Fuck word limits. Annoyed and sleepy.

I was feeling restless just now and suddenly I had this urge to tidy up my disgustingly messy and overflowing closet. I have this really bad habit of throwing clothes back into my closet without hanging them up or folding them, so there was this huge mountain of clothes stashed in my closet before the tidying up. And yeah, this is weird, but it felt therapeutic. Something's so wrong with me.

Unsurprisingly, I started sneezing really soon and my floor was super dusty. MY ROOM IS SO DISGUSTING. I almost started cleaning up the whole place, at 1 in the morning. I so need a life.

I think it's ridiculous that half a semester has passed and I STILL don't have my fucking Equity textbook. It's even more ridiculous to buy a brand-new book when you'll be using it for like, 30% of the damn semester. Fuck what the hell I'm just going to get someone to loan me his/her textbook and photocopy. And I'm generally against photocopying textbooks. I really, totally want to do the legal thing, but the situation is preventing me from doing so. Trust me, I even searched Kino's database for the damn book and of course I turned up nothing. And I don't like looking at a photocopied book; it's just...it just doesn't have the same feeling as looking/reading/highlighting a real book.

I'm so not making any sense but yeah.

My essay sucks but I can't be arsed anymore so whatever. I can't be arsed to cut down on my words tonight so tomorrow lor.

So my brother's in my JC and hearing him talk about XYZ's command of English is hil-larious (XYZ a.k.a. Kommunist Koh a.k.a. the principal, bwahaha). He was also bitching about how the only teacher who spoke good English was this new Lit teacher whom I've never met before. It's just damn sad that Anand ain't there anymore; when I went through the rubbish subject introduction shit (like seriously if you have no clue what the subjects are about then you have no business being in a JC) he was the one that left the deepest impression.

I miss Anand! Sigh.

Maybe I'll relief again in Jurong in July or something. It certainly pays way better than an internship. Haha. And I'm broke, meaning I only have $175 in my bank account 'cause I'm too lazy to cash deposit my Chinese New Year money. Bleah.
Deleted the rest of the entry 'cause it was crap.